


The Scene is Dead; Long Live the Scene

by apodiopsys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Dean works on the Impala a lot and Sam thinks it's really hot. And that quite literally is the entire plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scene is Dead; Long Live the Scene

The summer right after Sam turns seventeen, a ghoul hunt takes Dad, and consequently him and Dean, to a small town in southern Alabama. Things have been good for them lately, Dad held down a job while they hunted in Nebraska and Dean hustled almost five hundred dollars at pool on their way here, and that means that they can actually afford to rent a two bedroom, one bathroom, kitchen/dining/living room condo with running water and toilets that work. It’s on the outskirts of town; they don’t have neighbors for at least a mile on either side, and that’s good for when the boys are outside sparring or doing target practice.

Dean keeps the Impala in the yard in front of the house, parked where he can see it from their bedroom window. The air is heavy in the way it only is down south at the end of July. The only time Sam doesn’t feel like he’s drowning on air is when he’s taking a cold shower and even then everything is too hot and too wet. While he spends most of his time inside, sitting on the sofa in front of the fan or doing pull-ups on the bar in front of their door Dean is outside tinkering with the engine of his _baby_.

His favorite thing about the pull-up bar being in their room is that if he does them with his back to the door and his front to the window he can watch Dean as he cranks the bolts tighter, makes the engine work smoother than they do during a good fight. Sam does pull ups – one, watches Dean push the wrench until it isn’t possible to push it further, muscles in his arms straining, two. He wipes his face with the rag he keeps in his back pocket, smearing grease into onto his cheeks and forehead, three. Lately, there’s grease everywhere, following his brother in a trail so that Sam could find him without breadcrumbs if he needed. It doesn’t ever seem to leave him, clinging to his skin and the white tank tops he’s become so fond of in the humid Alabama summer. Sam watches him roll his shoulders, stretches his arms up so that the stained fabric rides up to show a stripe of skin as the worst (or best) peep show ever given in the history of peep shows. 

Sam’s mouth waters.

Eventually – it doesn’t take long, not longer than fifteen minutes – he can’t stand it, can’t stand watching Dean playing with the Impala when what he really wants is to play with _him. _Sam’s excuse is that he’s bringing him water, a glass of really cold water from the fridge (that actually works) with ice cubes because, hey, it’s a hot day out and Sam is just being considerate because he doesn’t want his brother-slash-boyfriend to accidentally die from dehydration or something.__

But even with his excuses all lined up and ready, he gets to the porch and it’s all he can do to just lean against the railing and watch Dean as he bends over the engine, singing loudly and barely on-key to the cassette he’s got playing from inside the Impala. The glass is left forgotten on the porch railing. Dean doesn’t even hear Sam coming from behind him, he gets the warning of the sun being blocked out by his younger brother’s shadow and Sam’s huge hands closing around his hips and swinging him around so he’s leaned against the open front of the car. 

“Hey -” he starts to say, but Sam’s already dropped to his knees, fumbling with the belt and zipper and thumbing at the button. He looks up at Dean, all dark eyes and dark pink lips and Dean stifles a groan, cups his chin with his hand and strokes his thumb across Sam’s cheek. It leaves a dark smear of grease on his skin, one small stain matching all the ones that Dean has on his face and arms and torso. Sam turns his head to the left, catches his thumb with his lips so he can suck it into his mouth, tongue stroking over the pad. Underneath the car-grease is salty skin and he keeps these kitten licks at it, drawing it further into his mouth until he can lick at the webbing between Dean’s thumb and pointer finger. 

He releases Dean’s hand, tugs his jeans that are maybe just on this side of too small down so they’re around his thighs, around his knees. He’s wearing black boxer-briefs underneath; Sam dives forward and presses his nose against the fabric, breathes in deep like he’s trying to suffocate himself. Maybe he is. It smells sharp: sweaty and masculine, like grease and sex and _Dean_ and all he wants is to wrap himself in it and stay there forever. Sam mouths at them, at Dean’s hardening cock like he can’t help himself, tongue tracing the shape and lines until his mouth is dry but the fabric wet and damp, clinging to his hard-on. 

It’s a damn good thing - really _damn_ good thing - that they don’t have neighbors on either side for miles; that Dad is out at the library doing research, that he won’t be home until late because he’s got a date with Jim, Jack and José; that random Jehovah's Witnesses don’t come popping around to preach at them since they got chewed out the last time. It means that Sam is free to pull his big brother’s cock out and suck him off like it’s the path to righteousness _in their front yard_ and no-one will be around to witness it except for the sky and the Impala and God himself. 

Sam’s hands grip at Dean’s hips, not so much to stop him from moving but more to feel him, thumb across his hipbones and hold him there, like an anchor while he’s on his knees. Dean has one hand above his head, gripping to the hood of the Impala. It isn’t steady so he sways a little, in danger of toppling over while Sam slowly but surely sucks his very _soul_ out through his dick. His other hand curves around Sam’s head, pulls at his hair when he’s so close to coming that he can taste it. 

His mouth is wet, shiny with spit and Dean hauls him up, licks into his mouth where he can taste himself on top of rootbeer and turkey sandwiches and mint toothpaste and Sam. He groans without realizing it, drags him close so that their lines are all pressed up together. The stiff ridge of Sam’s cock presses against Dean’s, worn denim against his bare skin that almost hurts but doesn’t quite reach that point. He’s babbling before he realizes it, a semi-steady stream of, “Dean, Dean please, want you so _bad_ ,” and, “Don’t know what it’s like - you should try watching yourself, you fucking grease monkey.” 

One way or another, Dean has Sam by the wrist, spins him around and manages to shut the hood of the Impala and bend his baby brother over it. He isn’t wearing a shirt; the metal of the hood is warm, almost hot against his skin but that’s okay, that’s good, because Dean presses his weight against him, hips pressed flush against his ass and Sam can feel it when he whispers, “Christ, Sammy, you’re so fucking desperate for it you’ll take it on the hood of my car,” against the shell of his ear. 

Hands at the front of Sam’s jeans fumble, push the button through the hole and tug the zipper down too roughly. His cock is heavy, hard, curving up towards his stomach and Dean grips it at the base, tugs it once - twice, making his brother tip his hips forwards and into his fist. Sam whines. “Shh, pretty boy, you were asking for it,” he whispers, tongue tracing his skin. Sam whines again, louder still when Dean hand moves away from his dick, dips back and behind. 

He grins into Sam’s neck, scrapes his teeth along the muscle. “Such a slut,” he whispers. “Such a pretty, pretty, slut. Already open and wet for me.” Dean’s fingers are blunt, long, pressing in and upwards at an angle that Sam can’t quite reach when he’s lying horizontal on the bed with his wrist twisted awkwardly. Sighing his relief, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, spreads his legs further and twists so he can look back at his brother; Dean grins at him again, slowly like molasses as his fingers twist inside him. 

The short of the long is that Sam _wants_. He wants Dean inside him, filling him up and splitting him in half, he wants him here and just like this, bent over the hood of his car. He wants to crawl up it so he’s leaning against the windshield, spread open and on his back that way he can see Dean’s face. Illogically and maybe physically impossibly he wants Dean to sit on the hood, straddle him and ride him hard, just like that. 

If Sam had been able to watch them together he’d probably say that they looked really good, beautiful even, all long lines and hard muscles, toned and tanned from top to toe. Dean’s pressed up against him, behind him, chest to back with his pants around his thighs and a good two inches shorter than his brother. It’s okay though, he leans up on his toes and hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder; his cock slips between the cleft of ass and they stay like that for a few minutes at least, rubbing against each other (and the Impala, and if Dean’s honest that is _so hot_ ). 

“C’mon, Dean, please,” Sam grates out, voice at least an octave lower than it tends to be. “Want you.” He curves his hands around his little brother’s hips, pulls him back and around and maneuvers him around until he’s perched on the edge of the hood, leaning back on the metal and hissing where it’s hot against his skin. 

He says, “Yeah, okay,” and uses his hands to get Sam to spread his legs wider. It’s not something that he’s even aware of doing before he’s actually done it, but then he’s kneeling on the ground (no easy feat when his pants are bunched around his thighs) and nosing back behind Sam’s balls, pressing his tongue against the skin he finds there. Dean hears the choking noise that he makes, feels him scrabbling onto something, anything. He takes his time anyway, long and slow licks with the flat of his tongue until he can feel Sam’s legs shaking where they’re bracketing his shoulders. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Dean says, voice dry as he stands up. Sam has one hand stretched above his head, gripping the edge of the hood where it meets the windshield so tight the muscles stand out in his forearm; the other hand is wrapped around his cock, tugging slowly. He just grins at Dean, lazy and lust filled and he doesn’t even bother asking, just grabs him by the hips and guides himself in. It’s tighthotwet in ways that he shouldn’t have any right to be, but Sam just wraps one leg around his lower back and pulls him in deeper until he’s in all the way, balls deep. 

Dean can feel it, the groan that rumbles up from Sam’s chest. He takes a few deep breath, tries to not end this way faster than it should. It’s no easy feat with the way that Sam is grinding down, begging him with these soft breathy moans. “Move, asshole,” Sam whines, twisting his hips in a vicious figure-eight that has Dean seeing stars momentarily, but he pulls himself together and moves fast and hard. 

Leaning up on his toes Dean is level with Sam, lips brushing his jaw while his palms rest flat on the hood of the Impala, right above his shoulders. It changes the angle completely, makes Sam toss his head back with a thunk against the metal and keen, sweet and loud. His other legs joins the first, wrapping around his waist and pulling Dean in deep and tight and he says, “Yeah, there, God _Dean_ , there.” His skin is tacky with sweat; Sam’s is too, and every time Dean thrusts in he slips a little further up the hood of the car. He tries to hold himself still, puts one hand flat on the hood and braces the other on the windshield, but Dean punches the air out of him and when he comes he grabs at his hair instead, pulling him down so he can sear his lips with his own. 

It’s seeing Sam, feeling Sam - eyes shut and mouth wide open, back arched tight in a bow, naked and on top of his car (his _baby_ ) and clenching around him like he never wants him to leave - that does it for him, kicks him in the ass and makes him come harder than he has in a while. He collapses on him after, face pressed into his sweaty shoulder. 

“You’re heavy, Dean,” he says, pushing at him without any real effort behind it. “Where’re my pants?”

“How should I know, you seemed so eager to drop them,” Dean snorts, finally sitting up and pulling out of Sam with a slick sound. He reaches down and runs his finger through the mess, lube and spit and come dripping out of his ass. Sam inhales sharply, hisses. “Gonna play with you one day,” he says roughly, pressing one finger inside him and really, it’s nothing, not after what he just had in there. “When you’re all wet and messy. You’d love it.” He says it like a statement, like it’s nothing but the truth and well, looking at his brother with grease stains on his cheeks and tank top, wiping his hands on the rag that he uses on the car, Sam supposes there’s truth in that.


End file.
